What Was, What Will Be
by Travithian Axile
Summary: Entry for the Holiday Fanfiction Contest. It's Christmas and Sparda is having an attack of conscience. My take on how Sparda and Eva met. R & R!


Disclaimer: Devil May Cry is the property of Capcom and is not mine in any way or form.

A Word From the Author: This fic is my contribution to the Holiday Fanfiction Contest hosted by Laryna6. The winter holiday of my choice will be Christmas.

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**DEVIL MAY CRY:**

**HOLIDAY FANFICTION CONTEST**

**WHAT WAS, WHAT WILL BE**

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It should have been a time of celebration.

But the people have gone hungry for a long time. Dull eyes, glazed with burning fever, gaze blankly at the sky stained with the colors of war—black smoke, crimson fire—heads drooping under the weight of oppression, beyond their frail human bodies' endurance, human bodies, some alive and some not, litter the ground, too exhausted to drag themselves to safety as the demon host ride past, crushing them beneath their huge, ironshod boots and the flaming hooves of their steeds. For some, death comes as a blessing.

The war has been stretching on for too long.

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That is what the devil knight thinks, when he looks down from his lofty height to gaze upon the vast plains beneath him, the demon host as black dots upon the rust-red ground, so soaked with human blood that nothing will ever grow there again. Orange and red flicker uncertainly among the moving demons, moving purposefully in organized chaos. The devil knight should feel proud to be part of such a mighty force; yet he looks and is strangely subdued.

It should have been an easy victory. Clean and clear, one strike to bring humanity to its knees. After all they have been taught—of the more numerous but weaker race—why is this not so? While do they continue to fight, even when all hope is gone? He reflects quietly.

Humans are curious creatures.

"What ails you, my knight?"

The devil knight turns, ashamed to have been caught feeling anything but hatred for the humans, lowest of the low, bottom-feeders, and bows before his liege. Even as he says it, he knows he lies, and it is a curious feeling, lying to his lord. "Nothing, milord," he murmurs. "There is no cause for concern."

And that is the root of the problem. The demon armies are pressing forth, and the human forces are retreating fast. In weeks, mere days, the mortal realm would belong, utterly and unquestionably, to his lord.

Mundus smiles at his most favored servant and bids him rise. "You have served me well and faithfully. When this kingdom is mine," he says, "You shall sit at my right hand."

"Thank you, milord," he replies, but again, it is a lie.

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There is a girl. A white cross, the pure white of which cannot be found anywhere else in this war-ravaged land, is clutched in her hot hands, the gold chain tangled among sweaty locks and fingers. It was her mother's, but now her mother is dead, and so it is hers.

She is praying, and crying at the same time, as she asks the Father for faith. It is something she is fast losing, in a world where humanity is doomed to slavery and her family have died, one by one. Human corpses are littered around her, and the desert air keeps them relatively intact, and she can still see their dying expressions etched onto their faces. It is a recent battle and the body of her brother is still cooling; she has fallen asleep clutching a man who will never wake again, lost in the grip of fevered tears and little-girl betrayal and utter loneliness.

She is now surrounded by the demon camp, but she doesn't know that.

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"Look! A foundling!"

She looks up in alarm, as jeering shouts drift her way. The gold chain in her hands catch the silver moonlight and glitters with shards of white fire. Demon soldiers pick their way across the strewn bodies, tottering as though drunk, their eyes orange and burning as glowing coals. Heading her way.

She screams, high-pitched and helpless, and shrinks back against the remains of the sooty wall, a sad remnant of her brother's encampment. The demons are closing in fast, lanky and long-legged, all teeth and claws and glistening scales. They are bored and looking for fun; and they have found it.

"Keep away!" The cross swings out in a wide, sparkling arc, her brother's corpse at her feet revitalizing her. She spits at them like a wild animal, invoking the name of the Holy Father. "Don't…don't come any nearer!"

They slow, for even in those days when the Darkness is on the rise the symbol of the Creator still has power, and the faith of the little girl makes that power stronger. She stands there, glaring, the cross brandished like a weapon, eyes wild and hair sticking out. Then the sentries laugh, unafraid, and close in.

The crucifix lashes out like a whip, and it _stings, _but then the lizardman seizes one slender hand and pries the fingers apart. The cross drops to the ground, half-burying itself in the sift earth. She struggles to pull free, filthy white dress billowing about thin ankles. Terrified, she lashes out with one bare foot. The sentry catches it and effortlessly flips her onto her back. They laugh at her helplessness. One of them rips her dress and she opens her mouth to scream.

"You two! What are you doing away from your posts?" a harsh voice shouts, The lizardmen gulp noticeably and drop the girl, and quick as a snake she slithers away from their reach and grabs the cross, hugging it to her chest. The two guards stutter out an apology before they scramble away, leaving the newcomer with the girl.

She looks up, and her eyes are pale blue in the angular contours of her face as they meet the eternally blazing eyes of the devil knight.

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He curses, as he stands in the shadow of an overhanging shelter, the human cowering at his feet. Why now? Why so soon, after his crisis of faith? Is this a test, that capricious Fate has designed, to trick him?

He knows as he stands there, that he is a killer. Thousands of humans have fallen beneath Force Edge, and his claws have tasted human blood all too often. The _Diabolus miles militis _they call him. _Corruo._ The devil knight understands that this is all too true. Yet, as he stares at the girl, he cannot bring himself to kill her. His upraised claw trembles, and falls to his side.

_Traitor! _ His mind cries, centuries of ingrained doctrine rising to combat the alien emotions; and theyare, guilt, sadness, anger, as he stands wavering. He has been wavering for a long time, and he knows with quiet, bitter acceptance, that he cannot sit on the fence forever. Someday, he will have to make the choice. No, not someday—then choice is now. Kill her, or do not. It sounds so simple, but in reality the war within himself has been going on for some time, and it is wrenching his soul apart.

He does not comprehend why he does what he does now; he will not understand until the war is long over. He kneels, and they lock eyes, the devil and the girl, and he asks, "What is your name?", sealing his fate forever.

"My name," says the girl, with those too-old eyes that seem as though they can look into his very heart and see the turmoil raging there, "is Eva."

It starts to snow.

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It is, after all, a day for celebration.

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'…and it shall be noted that five years after the birth of our Lord the devil knight Sparda rebelled against his own kind whom he had served for so long and overthrew the Lord of the Underworld, whose name we shalt not speak nor write, into the Void where his wicked soul so rightfully belongs, after a long and bitter battle. And it shall be further recorded that the lass who turned him to good, the Lady Eva, was wed to the devil knight Sparda, on the night of the great victory.'

--Excerpt from the Forbidden Archives of the Vatican, 'Demon World History' date and author unknown.

--end—

Started 22 /12/05

Completed 22/12/05

Time taken About two hours.

Hope you've enjoyed this. Hopefully, this won't be my only offering for the Holiday fanfiction contest. Look forward to submitting another entry! Cheerio.

T. Axile.


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